


irrational relationality

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock-centric, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 01:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: "Oh dear author could you write a ficlet like that but where Sherlock is needy and sad that John isn't paying him attention so Sherlock gets all clever somehow and gets John 's strong hands to yank and reel Sherlock's back to press hard against' John's front"@221beesplace
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 12
Kudos: 120





	irrational relationality

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fic written for 221beesplace on tumblr
> 
> Not sure how 'clever' Sherlock was in this, but hopefully what I wrote works!

As the day drew to an end, and the case he had been working on for just over two weeks drew to a close, solved, at last, Sherlock felt a deep wave of satisfaction drop onto his shoulders. It had been a very trying scenario, fraught with complex paradigms and false leads, and he was pleased to present his conclusion to Lestrade finally.

Walking back to 221B, he found himself buzzing with new energy, this one pleasant and soothing, sending thrills up his spine. He was looking forward to seeing John, telling him about the case and how brilliant he had been in solving it. Feeling a pang in his chest, he realized he missed John—the case had kept them apart as Sherlock worked to solve the mystery presented to him. When he was busy with a case, John knew he was unavailable and, despite the newness of their relationship—4.3 months, to be exact—he seemed understanding.

Mostly.

Sherlock sighed, remembering a small row they’d had a week into the case, when John had tried to interrupt his thoughts with a kiss on the neck, amorous thoughts clearly on his mind, and Sherlock had all but bit his head off. Thinking back, Sherlock felt a little rueful—maybe a little guilty—for the reaction. And, as he mused over the incident, he realized he hadn’t seen or heard much from John in the time between then and now. Brow furrowed, turning the corner onto Baker Street, he tried to recall if John’s absence had been due to Sherlock mentally muting him, ignoring his presence in favour of work, or if John had actually stepped briefly out of their little life in anger.

Unable to pinpoint which was correct, his pace quickened, and he all but jogged to the door of 221, pounded up the stairs and burst into the flat. Sitting in his chair, John jumped, almost tearing the open newspaper he held in his hands into pieces at the shock.

“Sod _off,_ Sherlock!” he exclaimed, straightening the paper with slow hands. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Sherlock smirked. “Sorry, John," he replied, shrugging off his coat. When he turned, John was once more reading the paper, a frown creasing the space between his brows. Sherlock strode over, dropping to a crouch beside the chair. Flattening his forearms upon the arm of the chair—pushing John’s elbow off in the process and earning himself a glare—he rested his chin atop the shelf they made. John cleared his throat, looking pointedly at the newspaper before him. Sherlock waited, received nothing for his patience, and pouted.

“I’ve solved the case, John,” he said finally, voice clearly expectant and deeply pleased. John’s lips quirked, and the frown didn’t budge. Sherlock scowled and poked John’s shoulder. “John? Did you hear me? Have you gone momentarily deaf?”

With a mighty sigh, John folded the newspaper and settled it on the table. “I heard you, Sherlock.” He looked over at the detective, a strangely unimpressed look on his face. “What do you want?”

Taken aback by John’s roughness, Sherlock jerked back, eyes wide. He had not expected this response, and he desperately cast back into his memories of the past few weeks, trying once more to determine if John had been so mad the entire time because he was clearly mad now.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock schooled his face into an easy smile, settling back on his haunches and letting his hands dangle loosely against his thighs. “I said I solved the case, John. Finally. It was very hard.” He smiled, preening a little at the impending praise he assumed John would bestow upon him; prepared himself to launch into a detailed outline of exactly how it all had gone down.

But John rolled his eyes. “Wow, great, good for you, Sherlock,” his voice dripped heavily with annoyance and sarcasm. “Shall I ring the Queen to arrange for your parade?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he watched as John stood up, arms folded over his chest. “I’m going for a shower,” he said, turning abruptly and marching down the hall. Sherlock gaped after him, his shoulders slumping, proud chest deflating like a sad balloon.

The bathroom door closed with a hard click; Sherlock heard the shower spray hitting against the tub shortly after. Perturbed, he got to his feet and sank into his own chair. Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he stared thoughtfully at John’s empty chair before him, trying to sort out what had happened.

Clearly, John was upset with him. That much was evident, and he did not need to be a genius to see it. His memory was unhelpful when pinpointing John’s mood during the case, so he had to assume it was because he had snapped at him when John attempted to initiate intimate contact between them.

Sherlock threw his hands up, exasperation bright in his face. Bloody relationships with their complicated social protocols! How was it his fault that John had taken it upon himself to bother Sherlock during a case? He knew the rules—work came first, full stop.

But, as he glared into the empty fireplace, he felt a ripple of uncertainty. _Was_ it full stop? Was that still true, now that they had moved beyond friendship into this confusing—yet brilliant—new chapter of coupling?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and scowled. This was infuriating. _John _was infuriating, and, worse, he was acting like a child.

The opening of the bathroom door jolted him from his thoughts, and he felt humidity flow into the air as steam drifted into the hall. John stepped out, and Sherlock offered a timid smile. But the other man did not look his way, just tightened the belt of his robe and mounted the stairs to his own room.

Sherlock frowned at that. John rarely used his old room anymore, not since they had begun sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, and he wondered how long it had been since John returned to his own room. He tried desperately to find an answer, but again was met with a blank recollection—he had not slept during the case, aside from passing out for twenty minutes on the sofa halfway through, so he wasn’t sure where John had slept.

However, hearing the hard, final way in which John closed the door to his room, Sherlock was fairly sure it hadn’t been in the bed they now shared. Exasperated and completely helpless in the grip of his own uncertainty, Sherlock stood and heaved a loud sigh. Without John in the vicinity to hear such a sound, his passive-aggressive gesture passed without reply.

Stalking into the kitchen, he began to bang cupboards and pots and pans, hoping the noise would draw John back downstairs to investigate the sudden noise. But, as he forcefully closed the fridge, the almost empty shelves rattling inside at the vigour, John did not emerge. Sherlock paused, listening; he could just make out the sound of John walking across the floor above, but nothing more.

Gritting his teeth together, Sherlock bounded into the living room, plunked himself down on the couch and turned on the tv at an obnoxiously loud volume. He left it that way for a half-hour, staring grimly at some comedy show, until Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs to complain, upon which he shut it off and shooed her away.

Rising to his feet, annoyance stiff in every line of his tall form, Sherlock walked resolutely to the stairs, stared up them and gritted his teeth. Finally, grabbing at the rail, he climbed to the second-floor landing, eyes narrowed. Pausing outside the door to John’s room, he raised a hand to push the door open, then hesitated. Gauging potential protocols for an unfamiliar situation, he grudgingly knocked first. He rocked on his heels, folding his hands behind his back, and waited.

Nothing.

Scowling, he knocked again, harder this time. When greeted with silence, he barked out, “John! I know you’re in there!” No answer came, and he raised a hand to his face, gripping the bridge of his nose. “John Hamish Watson!” he all but bellowed. “Do not ignore me!”

Exasperated at the continuing silence, he grabbed the doorknob, prepared to launch into the room and confront his moody partner. However, when he tried to turn the handle, he found it locked and unmoving. Aghast, shock written across his face, Sherlock, opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. When he at last spoke, it was in an impetuous whine, voice pitched high with disbelief.

“You’ve _locked the door?”_ he declared, incredulous. Raising his fist, he banged resolutely on the door, a deep scowl on his face. “Really, John? _Really?_” He rattled the knob, balking at the irrationality of the move, before kicking at the bottom of the door with his toes. “John Watson, are you _really_ going to ignore me like a _sullen child_?”

There was a soft sound from behind the door, a scuff and what might have been a quiet laugh, and Sherlock froze, face lighting up expectantly. But then silence stretched out, and his brows drew down in a thunderous frown. He raised his hand again, prepared to break the damn door down if he had to, when it swung open, nearly hitting him where he stood. Stepping back in surprise, he found John standing in the doorway, still in his robe. Arms folded across his chest. He cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Can I help you?” he asked, tilting his head as the detective seethed.

“You—!” Sherlock sputtered out, pointing an accusing finger in John’s amused face. “You were _ignoring _me!” He narrowed his eyes. John shrugged with a slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and made an expression that seemed to say ‘_well... yeah.’_

“Noticed that, did you?” John replied, leaning easily against the door frame. “I can’t imagine what _that_ feels like. Being ignored by your partner?” His eyelashes fluttered in a parody of disbelief. “Gosh, must be absolutely _awful._”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and he snapped it shut with a hard click of teeth. Retracting his accusatory finger, his lips pushed out in a defiant pout. “I see what you’re doing, John,” he said, and the other man quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh, you do? Thank _god_, I was so very worried it would fly right over your great big fat head,” John snapped, his arms tightening across his chest. Sherlock gaped at him, eyes wide and face incredulous.

“_Fine_, John,” he shot back. “I do not have to stay here and listen to this.” He spun around to stomp off, but John’s arm shot out, hand closing over Sherlock’s wrist. He reeled Sherlock backwards with a rough yanking motion and anchored him in place against his chest with arms wrapped around the detective’s torso.

“Yes, Sherlock, you do,” John murmured, lips just brushing the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock quivered at the sensation, feeling the anger recede to faint annoyance at the feel of John’s solid chest against his back. He sighed; closed his eyes as John went on. “You don’t get to snap at me, ignore me for _two bloody weeks_, then decide everything is fine, just like that.” Sherlock squirmed in his arms.

“But John,” he began, falling silent when John squeezed him in his arms.

“No, Sherlock,” John said, linking his hands together in front of Sherlock’s waist. “You do not get to decide how our relationship works on just _your _terms. I get a say, too. That’s how this works. Okay?” Sherlock was silent, and John gave him another squeeze. “_Okay_?”

Sherlock sighed and let the fight seep out of him, sinking into the warmth of John’s arms. “Yes, John,” he murmured, tilting his head to rest his cheek to the top of John’s head when the other man rested it on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he added, uncertainty creeping into his voice. John chuckled, a soft puff of air against Sherlock’s neck.

“I know you are, you wanker.”


End file.
